


John Sheppard Is Not a Canadian

by toomuchplor



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:50:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For lilyfarfalla, who asked so nicely.  *g*</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Sheppard Is Not a Canadian

"Look, I know whereof I speak," says Rodney, loudly and rapidly. "Raised in Fort McMurray, remember? That would be _northern_ Alberta. I know snow, I know blizzards, I know icy roads, and I know when you need to stay indoors and preserve your fingers and toes."

"It's, like, minus twelve," says John, already wrapping his scarf around his neck. "That's not that cold, right? Celsius looks lower than Fahrenheit, that's how it works."

"Oh good god," groans Rodney, "save me from Americans and their ridiculously arbitrary systems of measurement."

"Come on, Rodney," John wheedles. "Ten minutes. Just -- let's make snowmen or something."

"It's not snowman weather," Rodney returns, pulling his laptop closer and typing faster. "Too cold. Snow's like powder at this temperature, it's like trying to pack dry flour into a ball."

"Snow angels, then," John amends. He pulls on his mittens, so glowingly bright and new that he has to pause to pull the Zellers price tag off them. "What's the point of coming all the way to Alberta to visit Jeannie and everyone if you won't go out and enjoy the snow?"

"No one sane _enjoys_ the snow, they _tolerate_ it at best," Rodney says. "I bet even Madison would agree if she wasn't at school right now. It's too cold, it's still coming down, it's idiotic to wander out into a white-out and stumble into snow banks and get cold and miserable for no reason."

"Sounds awesome, I'm going," John says, unbothered, and zips up his coat. "Call the Mounties if I'm not back in an hour."

"It's not the Mounties in Edmonton, it's the police, you ignorant ass," Rodney snips, but the door is already opening and closing and John is gone.

Rodney huffs and types, rolls his eyes and checks his email, glances out the window and opens up a different file. With a final, long-suffering sigh, he gets up and stuffs himself into his winter gear, short angry tugs at sleeves and boot cuffs and his toque's brim.

When he stumbles out the front door, blinking against the fat drifting flakes that are thick in the air, Rodney is immediately knocked flat by John, who must have been waiting quietly next to the door this whole time. "Agh!" Rodney shouts, and John stuffs snow down Rodney's back and wrestles them both over into a particularly high drift where Rodney swears and John har-har-hars loudly in his ear, rosy and frosty and just as mired in snow as Rodney.


End file.
